


you're the one habit i just can't kick

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Series: something strange in the neighborhood (of hell's kitchen) || stranger things + defenders au [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crossover, Angst, Bisexual Male Character, College Flashback, Drunken Kissing, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love, the one where dustin grows up to be foggy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: Steve picks up on the third ring, and says, “No, Dustin, I am not driving to Columbia with this fucking traffic and my arm—”“You know when I asked you what it felt like to fall in love with Jonathan?” says Foggy, his voice a distant thing.or: Dustin grows up and falls in love a few times. this might be the time that breaks him.





	you're the one habit i just can't kick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Suprememugwump1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suprememugwump1/gifts), [quadjot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadjot/gifts).



> title is from Fall Out Boy's "Heaven's Gate". technically a prequel to [this work](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12828522?view_full_work=true), does not contain spoilers for said work but it's highly recommended you read that first.

Dustin finds out Steve’s dating Jonathan when he’s a week away from turning sixteen.

It’s a warm summer’s day, and there’s not really much to do. Mike’s hanging out at El’s and Dustin has no desire to walk in on them getting some hanky-panky in. Max and Lucas are on a date, and Dustin has even less desire to join them and be the awkward third wheel. He’d go to the Byers place, but Will’s gotten the flu and would probably chase him out if he went there in a bid to keep him from getting his fool ass infected.

So, here’s Dustin, biking down to the library. Jonathan’s working here for the summer, along with like two other jobs, and putting aside money to head to NYU—from what Dustin hears from Will, he’s planning on taking an arts course. Something visual.

He’s a little surprised to see Steve’s car parked nearby. In the two years he’s been friends with the guy, he’s always had to bring the books to Steve, who seems to like Dustin’s tastes in books just fine.

Huh. Maybe Steve’s finally given in to all the cajoling to attend college. Dustin heads inside, greets the librarian, and heads for the fiction section to check out a Philip K. Dick novel.

Then he hears something—moans, just nearby. He freezes in place, for a moment scared that there’s a monster in the library. Four months ago there’d been a monster that moaned just like this, and it had nearly taken off Will’s leg when they were running from it.

He grabs the heaviest book he can reach, and creeps to the furthest section. If he’s lucky, he can sneak up on the thing. If not, at least he’s got a weapon to fend it off with if he needs to.

He steps closer and closer, and—

—blinks.

Stares, for a full five seconds, at Jonathan crowding Steve up against a bookshelf, the two of them kissing hungrily against a stack of dry textbooks. And it’s _definitely_ Steve he’s kissing, Dustin would know that hair anywhere.

“Um,” says Dustin.

Jonathan and Steve nearly jump out of their skins, Steve whipping around to see him. His eyes are wide with surprise. “ _Dustin?!_ ” he says, too loud for the library.

“So I’m just gonna go,” says Dustin, shoving the heavy book into the nearest empty space, trying to ignore the angry confusion bubbling in his chest, “and—leave you guys to your special time alone.”

He flees the scene as quick as possible, racing out of the library like his ass is on fire. He grabs his bike and bikes away, wondering if he should bring this to Nancy’s attention.

Oh, shit, _Nancy_. She doesn’t know about this, does she? Steve had been shooting both of them _looks_ for a while now, but Dustin hadn’t thought he’d ever really act on it, had thought he’d maybe moved on—

He has to stop biking near a curb, because he’s starting to wonder what this means. Are Jonathan and Nancy broken up? Is Jonathan cheating on Nancy with Steve? God, how’s Dustin missed this? How—

“Dustin?”

Dustin all but jumps out of his shoes, because Steve’s running up to him. Apparently he’d taken off the moment Dustin did, which, little rude.

“Dustin! Jesus, Henderson,” Steve’s saying, “I thought you were going to be at home—”

“How long have you and Jonathan been seeing each other?” says Dustin.

Steve blinks at him. “What?” he says.

“Is Jonathan cheating on Nancy with you?” Dustin says, deciding to rephrase his question.

The hurt that flashes across Steve’s face tugs at Dustin’s heart. “Neither of us would do that to Nancy,” he says, the two of them sitting down on the curb. “She knows. Honestly, this whole thing was kind of her idea, it’s just—this bit’s a new development.”

“There’s a thing?” says Dustin, frowning.

“A really weird thing,” says Steve, “but—it made sense. Jonathan likes her, I like her, she likes both of us back.” He sighs, his fingers twitching as he looks down at his hands. “And—you saw me and Jonathan, so.”

It does make sense, in Dustin’s head. It’s the best arrangement for all three of them, it won’t leave anyone out in the cold. Best of all, when he thinks back, it’s made Steve much happier, made things much less awkward between the three of them than it was in the aftermath of the Mind Flayer’s first attack. The confused hurt feeling in Dustin’s stomach eases, and he leans back a little.

“Steve,” he says, gravely.

Steve looks up, pastes on a brittle smile like he fully expects Dustin to tell him off for something. “Yeah?”

“If you sneak into the library in the morning instead of the afternoon, you and Jonathan can get fifteen minutes alone in the back,” says Dustin. “But also, I’d like to recommend you guys make out _away_ from the encyclopedias, if you don’t want me or anyone else running into you guys.”

It startles a laugh out of Steve, and he punches Dustin’s shoulder, a little like Lucas would. “I’ll have you know the encyclopedias are the least hellish on my neck,” he says.

“So shove Jonathan up against the shelf next time,” says Dustin, with little sympathy, “or better yet, make out somewhere other than the library, you heathen.”

Steve snorts out a laugh, flicks his ear. Dustin pretends to topple over, pretends to be greatly offended, and that’s how Jonathan finds them—laughing on the sidewalk, just two kids enjoying the summer before it fades away.

“Hey, Dustin,” Jonathan greets him, warmly. “Is this guy bothering you?”

“Oh, fuck you too, Byers,” Steve shoots back, but he’s grinning anyways as Jonathan sits down next to him. His hand makes an abortive gesture, as if about to take Jonathan’s, before he thinks better of it and just awkwardly pats the guy on the back.

Jonathan’s eyebrows go up into the fringe of his hair. His eyes meet Dustin’s, and he says, “Are you going to—”

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” Dustin promises. _Not even the Party,_ because this isn’t his secret to tell. “I’m glad you finally got your shit together, though.”

“I wasn’t that obvious,” says Jonathan, but he’s suppressing a smile.

“Nah, Dustin’s just got this supernatural perception,” says Steve, patting his hat.

“There’s nothing _supernatural_ about it, asshole, you’re just dense as hell,” Dustin shoots back, batting at his elbow. “ _Both_ of you. For a photographer you sure suck at seeing what’s right in front of you, Jonathan.”

“You’re assuming I didn’t,” says Jonathan, and once more Dustin remembers the rumors that used to fly about Jonathan Byers, the names used against him, _pervert, queer, freak_. As cool as Jonathan might be now, solid as unyielding stone in his belief that what people say about him personally doesn’t matter, Dustin knows it must’ve been tough, then. Must still be tough, even now.

Steve frowns a little, and goes far enough as to bump his shoulder companionably. If Dustin didn’t see them kissing earlier, he’d simply assume what anyone else in Hawkins would: Steve’s befriended Jonathan, which is something of a plot twist in itself.

Jonathan stiffens for a moment, as if he’s not quite used to affection like that from anyone not named Will Byers. Then the corners of his mouth turn upward in a small, soft smile, the sort of smile Dustin’s seen him direct towards Nancy.

“So hey,” says Steve, to Dustin now, “I hear from a little birdie that you’re thinking of going into _law_.”

“ _Thinking_ about it,” says Dustin, resting his palms on the pavement. “I’m not sure yet—maybe I’ll take up biology. You don’t know.”

“I think NYU’s offering courses in biology,” Jonathan casually says.

“Don’t you tempt him, Byers,” says Steve, smacking his shoulder. “He goes to New York, who am I gonna watch movies with?”

“Uh, me and Nancy, idiot,” says Jonathan.

“Who am I gonna watch _actual movies_ with?” Steve corrects, and Jonathan smacks his shoulder this time. “Ow! Dustin! Back me up here.”

“Those things you like count as movies?” says Dustin, dutifully, squinting up at Jonathan, who rolls his eyes at him and awkwardly pats his hat.

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” he says, vaguely, and it’s Dustin’s turn to roll his eyes at _him_ this time. “What?”

“You’re only a few years older than I am,” says Dustin. “Quit acting like Lucas’ grandfather.” He’s met Joseph Sinclair a few times, tagging along with his mother to the Sinclair Thanksgiving dinners, and he imagines Jonathan could very easily get along with him. They’re both weirdly into experimental films that don’t make a lick of sense.

“See?” says Steve, and Jonathan bumps his shoulder now, unable to suppress a smile.

Dustin looks up at a cloudless sky, and basks in the warmth of summer, the bickering beside him. Days like this, he wishes the summer could last forever.

\--

Two months after he turns sixteen, Dustin kisses Cindy McNamara behind the bleachers at school. They date for all of three weeks before Cindy dumps him, and that’s that for Dustin’s romantic hopes, he’s sure.

His heart’s broken, sure. Cindy’s his first, sort of, probably. He thinks whatever they did counts.

But five months after he turns sixteen, Dustin finds himself kissing Andy Pratt behind the bleachers.

It doesn’t—It doesn’t _last_ , and here’s the problem with kids in high school: they can be terrible, they can be cruel. They can steal your backpack, push you down, call you a queer, shove notes into your locker calling you horrible things so you lock yourself into the bathroom to cry and cry and cry.

The Party knows. Mike is incandescent with fury, and when Mike’s furious, so’s El, and Lucas swears up and down that the next time he sees Andy he’s going to kick his ass, and Max keeps eyeing Troy like she’d just love to hit _him_ with a nailbat, one of these days.

Will sits down next to Dustin, says, quiet, “I know where you can hide at lunch.”

“Why would I want to hide at lunch,” says Dustin, not very convincingly. “It’s fine, I’m fine.”

Will doesn’t say anything, but he scoots closer to Dustin and puts an arm around him. Dustin lets himself get tugged closer, until they’re hugging, then he shuts his eyes and wraps his arms around Will and cries.

“You’re okay,” says Will. It’s the same words Dustin himself had said last year, after Will had quietly confessed that maybe—just maybe—he liked Mike, and what did that mean, how could he do that, what kind of person was he to look at his best friend and his sister’s boyfriend that way?

“You’re okay,” says Will, and Dustin gives a hiccuping sob. Will’s not the best at hugs, he’s a little on the scrawny side, but Dustin doesn’t care—Will is steady enough to keep him from drowning, right now, in all the insults and the blows and the whispers following him around the school. “You’re okay.”

\--

Dustin tells Steve.

Of course he tells Steve, the guy’s practically his big brother now.

“If you want,” says Steve, while they’re eating ice cream at the store he’s working at to scrape together some money for a new car, as the other one died valiantly last year in a battle against the latest monster to slip into Hawkins from the Upside Down, “I can kick Andy Pratt’s ass for you.”

Dustin chokes. “No, _don’t_ ,” he says. “For one thing, Lucas has dibs. For another, I don’t—I _really_ don’t need that right now.”

“Oh, okay,” says Steve. “I’ll respect the dibs.” He digs into his ice cream and says, “You all right?”

“I’m—” starts Dustin, but he stops when he sees Steve looking at him. Steady, like a rock. He lets out a slow breath, and says, quiet, “How did you—How did you know? For sure? With Jonathan and Nancy?” Because he’s looked at all the books he could find in Hawkins’ library, hogged the new computer Mike’s dad bought and installed in their house, and he has the feeling it’s not enough, could never be enough. “Was it the storm?”

Steve wets his lips. “No,” he says, at last. “With Jonathan, it was—it was different. With guys in general it’s different, I guess, it’s sort of—it’s like when you’re standing on a ledge, right?”

Dustin remembers—standing on the ledge over the quarry, watching Mike fall and stop in mid-air. He remembers the sheer height, the bleak certainty, the terror of possibly stepping wrong, sliding off, the water rushing up to meet him.

“Okay,” he says.

“It’s like standing on a ledge,” says Steve, “looking down at the water. And you know it’s dangerous, you know it might not end well, but the water’s so tempting, and when you fall it feels like flying.”

“Wow,” says Dustin, dryly, because it’s that or wonder why it hadn’t felt like that with Pratt. “You clearly missed your calling to be a poet.”

“You’re a fucking shithead, Henderson,” says Steve, fondly, leaning over to ruffle Dustin’s hair. “Respect your elders.”

\--

Years later, years and years later, Matt Murdock walks into Foggy’s life and says, “Is this Room 312?”

Foggy looks up from his laptop.

It doesn’t feel like falling off a ledge, not quite yet, but Matt smiles at him and Foggy’s breath hitches in his throat. Matt touches the inside of his elbow and Foggy’s heart beats fast against his chest. Matt laughs, bright and clear like church bells and the little stream in the woods outside of Hawkins, and the sound burrows into Foggy’s heart, chases away the nightmares of sharp teeth and shrill shrieks.

He tells the Party, of course.

“How the hell did you get an underwear model for a roommate?” says Max, when he Skypes her. She’s training to be a stunt person, and there’s a bruise blooming over her right eye, but she’s grinning at the screen. “ _How_?”

“It’s sorcery, isn’t it,” says Lucas, dark circles under his eyes as he squints at the screen. He yawns, loudly.

“Go to _sleep_ , stalker,” says Max, fondly.

“But I want to talk to you, Madmax,” says Lucas, full of affection.

“The two of you are getting my dentist’s bill after I get dentures to replace the teeth you’re rotting,” Foggy informs them.

“I thought that was us,” says Mike. He and Jane are, predictably, in the same window, with Jane pretty much using him as a pillow. He pets her hair, recently cut short after one of the neighborhood kids stuck gum in it.

“You’re all sharing the burden,” Foggy tells him. “Will is excluded.”

“Thanks,” says Will, wryly. “Now—your roommate’s an underwear model?”

“Not literally,” says Foggy, “but like, he’s _so cute_. It’s like I’m rooming with the most handsome duckling in Columbia U.”

“And you want to stake your claim on that?” says Lucas. “Because I have to say, if I knew my roommate thought I was a handsome duck, I’d be a little concerned about what that signifies for his mental health.” He smiles, beatifically, even as Foggy flips him off. “I’m only telling the _truth_.”

“Shut up, Lucas,” Foggy huffs.

“You’re _blushing_ ,” says Jane, before realization dawns in her eyes. “Dustin? You didn’t. You _didn’t_.”

“Oh my god you did, didn’t you,” says Lucas, practically bouncing with delight.

“Did what?” says Mike.

“I did,” Foggy confirms, burying his face in his hands so he won’t have to see the shameless glee in his friends’ faces. “In my defense I was caught off-guard by how goddamn _hot_ he was.”

“My sympathies,” says Will, but he’s trying to suppress a grin, so he’s on thin fucking ice.

“Are you planning on impressing him with a slug from the Upside Down again?” says Max, propping up her cheek with a hand.

“You’re _so_ funny, Maxine,” Foggy throws back.

“Max, asshole, it’s _Max_ —”

“And no, I’m not,” Foggy continues on, “because he’s _blind_ , he wouldn’t be able to see it anyway. Plus, I already learned my lesson from the last time.” He licks at his chapped lips, and tries not to think about the last time he saw Dart in the tunnels, eating a bar of nougat.

“They stuck _you_ with a blind man?” Mike says. “Oh, god.”

“I’m not as messy as I was at fifteen, Wheeler, you can save the panic for your wedding day,” says Foggy, and Mike’s face grows even paler, if that’s even possible.

Jane just groans, burying her face into the back of Mike’s shirt. “Don’t say _wedding_ , Dustin,” she says, “ _please_.”

“Poor babies,” says Max, “should’ve just eloped to Vegas like Lucas and I did.”

“And make Hopper and Mrs. Byers miss out on their wedding day?” says Lucas.

“I could help cover for you guys,” says Will. “Aunt Henrietta’s coming, and—well, you know what she’s like.”

“Not _Henrietta_ ,” says Foggy, horrified.

“I’m not leaving you alone to deal with Aunt Henrietta, Will,” Jane says. “Promise.”

“Leaving aside the subject of Will and Jane’s evil aunt,” says Foggy, “guys. My new roommate? He’s the smartest guy in this entire dorm building, probably, and the most charming too, you should’ve seen him charm his way into the local barista’s heart today. His name’s Matt Murdock—”

“No way,” says Mike, “no fucking _way_ —the kid who got his eyes knocked out saving an old man?”

“He didn’t get his eyes knocked out,” says Foggy, repeating Matt’s assertion. “I’ve seen him with his glasses off, he’s got pretty brown eyes. Like El’s.”

“You’re sure you’re not crushing on him?” says Lucas. “You sound like you’re honestly considering marrying the guy. In which case, _elope._ ”

“Hell, no,” says Jane, her voice stern. But her eyes are sparkling with mischief. “They need to get married in Hawkins so _they_ can be uncomfortable in those wedding dress shops for a change.”

“I’m not marrying Matt!” says Foggy, throwing his hands up in the air. “I don’t even have a crush on him. He’s stupidly hot, yes, I’ll admit to that, but—a crush would make things awkward. The guy’s gonna be my roommate for the next few years.”

“You poor son of a bitch,” says Max. “Tell me when you guys finally kiss so I can come pick you up and drop you off in Vegas.”

\--

They’re at a party, drunk as hell, when It happens.

That’s what Foggy will privately refer to it forever, just It with a capital I, like Pennywise the Dancing Clown.

He’s been out for a while, dating men and women and occasionally bringing them back to the room when Matt is out for some fun. Matt doesn’t seem to mind, mostly, so long as no one fucks on his bed and also everyone is using protection. Plus, it’s not like Matt’s not having his own fun, either, but Foggy’s noticed that it’s always with women.

So—they’re at a party. It’s a good party, and Foggy’s pretty drunk by now. He must be, if he and Matt are leaning on each other like this, so close that he can maybe hear Matt’s heartbeat.

“Hey,” says Matt, “what—what happened to that guy, what was his name, Andy Pratt?”

“Hm?” says Foggy.

“Your last boyfriend,” Matt emphasizes, and Foggy snorts out a laugh, buries it in his shoulder.

“My _first_ boyfriend,” he corrects, “Will Laurence was the last one.” If Will Laurence even counted as one, he seemed pretty reserved about the whole _commitment_ thing.

“Oh, yeah, Laurence,” says Matt, thoughtfully, “the—the British history guy. Yeah, I know about him, but what about Pratt?”

Foggy sighs gustily, and says, with the calm granted by several years’ and a few hundred miles’ distance from Andy Pratt and Hawkins, “Man, it didn’t work out. My taste in men,” he laments, “is so fucking _bad_.”

“Not that bad,” Matt argues.

“How would _you_ know?” Foggy says. “Besides, Pratt sucked at kissing.” Also, being a decent person who didn’t turn the guy he made out with into a target for the school’s bullies, but he doesn’t say that. “There was enough room to back up a truck!”

Matt laughs. Foggy wants to hear that sound forever. “That’s a real shitty first kiss,” he says.

“Nope, that was Cindy McNamara,” says Foggy. “Also bad, in retrospect, but that was more my fault than hers.” He shrugs. “I just shrugged. Inexperience, you know.”

“Mm,” says Matt. “How would you kiss her now? Since you’re much more experienced?”

Foggy turns to look at him, grins widely. “You asking for a demonstration of how much my kissing technique’s improved since I was sixteen?” he says. “Because I could French a pillow right here—oh, right, you can’t see it.”

“What if,” says Matt, with a reckless grin, “you demonstrated on me?”

Foggy blinks at him. “What?” he says, surprised. “Wait, how—how’s that gonna work out? ‘Cause you don’t know where my mouth is.” He’s drunk enough to think this is a good enough reason, anyway, though in the light of day he’ll be horrified at himself.

“If I touch your face,” Matt offers, “I’d have a pretty good idea.”

“Oh,” says Foggy, and he scoots closer and brings Matt’s hand up to his face. “Touch away! Marvel at this Brad Pitt-like visage.”

“Very funny,” says Matt, but his fingers are tracing the outline of Foggy’s cheek, his thumb is brushing along his jawline, and Foggy’s breath catches in his throat.

They’re very close, he thinks. Matt’s fingers are tracing the contours of his face, gently exploring the lines of his features. He wets his lips a little, vaguely aware of how chapped they are, and feels Matt’s thumb brush over them, sees the pleased little look on Matt’s face.

He’s on the ledge in Hawkins, looking out over the quarry, but this is different now—he’s standing on the ledge, and the water is calling.

He leans forward.

Matt meets him halfway, and while the first kiss is clumsy, their teeth clacking together, the second is something else entirely. Matt kisses like he argues in class, like he wants to prove something—there’s a real hunger in it, almost primal, but at the same time he’s almost _gentle_. His thumb traces along Foggy’s jawline and fuck if that’s not driving him a little bit nuts, _god_.

He kisses back, a little bit competitive. Matt smiles into the kiss as Foggy gently pushes him down onto the couch, chasing his lips, the taste of him.

Then Matt grabs his shoulders and fucking flips them over, and suddenly Foggy’s under him and Matt’s above him and _well shit_ is Matt peppering kisses down his jaw, down his neck. Foggy makes an undignified noise, his hips kinda maybe jerking, fine, a little bit because oh, wow, oh _wow_ —

“Matt?”

And that is a dose of cold water to the face. Matt breaks away from Foggy, Foggy breaks away from Matt, and the two of them turn almost as one to Matt’s ex Bernadette, her eyes wide as saucers.

Oh, shit. Oh, shit, oh shit _oh shit_.

“Um,” says Foggy. “I can explain—”

“Jesus Christ, have you been pity-fucking Nelson?” says Bernadette, and ah, yes, now Foggy recalls why he hated her so much. Besides the whole “cheating on Matt” bit. “That is such a fucking downgrade.”

“Bernadette,” says Matt, evenly. “How’s Louis these days?”

Bernadette goes still and pale, and snarls out, “We _broke up_. And don’t you try to distract from what’s really going on here—”

“There’s nothing going on,” says Foggy, quickly, because Matt is—god, Matt is his _best friend_ here, and he can’t fuck that up. He can’t. “We’re drunk, we made out a little, everyone—everyone does that at parties. Y’know. Fun stuff. Nothing serious,” he says, though it breaks his own heart to say it.

“Yeah,” says Matt, his voice a distant thing. He smiles a little, and in the dim light, with his eyes hidden behind his glasses, it’s hard to really make out his expression. “Nothing serious.”

He says the same thing on the car ride back, when Foggy asks him quietly about it. “It’s nothing _serious_ , Foggy, like you said,” he says, with a little smile, “it’s fine.”

“It’s not gonna— _change_ anything, right?” says Foggy, feeling supremely awkward. Fuck. This might be the most awkward car ride of his life, he can just about see Dakota’s raised brows in the rear view mirror.

Matt shakes his head. “It won’t,” he assures him, hand twitching as if he wants to reach out to touch Foggy’s shoulder.

Foggy—Foggy so very badly wants that. Hasn’t quite realized how used he’s grown to Matt’s casual touches, but they haven’t even touched for the whole ride back to their dorm, and it’s—

He’s a man in a desert, is what he is, throat parched and heart hammering against his chest. Would he mind, if anything changed between them? Could he risk it?

“We’re still friends, Foggy,” Matt reassures him, and Foggy swallows the lump in his throat and forces a smile. “Maverick and Goose, remember?”

“Without the _dying,_ hopefully,” says Foggy, and pretends that’s still enough.

\--

Matt says nothing about it the next day.

Matt doesn’t even act like anything happened the next day, just prods Foggy awake with his cane and cheerfully tells to drink some aspirin and also could he please _brush his damn teeth_ , as usual for the aftermath of their late night.

Foggy should be okay with that. He shouldn’t _care_ so much, over something casual. Hell, he’s not even sure how much of it really happened or how much of it was just—the two of them being drunk and at a party, the whole face-touching thing.

Except when he looks at himself in the mirror he can see the faint bruises on his neck, traces of Matt’s mouth on his skin. Except he can’t not remember the way Matt kissed him, his thumb on Foggy’s jawline, the softness of his lips. Except now he knows exactly what Steve meant—the fall, the flight, and the water rushing up to meet him.

Matt grins at him, and Foggy is suddenly, miserably aware of this: he loves him. He’s _in love_ with him, and maybe he has been since, shit, since Matt walked into his life and asked him about Room 312. He hasn’t just been looking down at the water all these years, he’s been fucking drowning already, and last night’s kiss has dragged him further under the surface.

And god help him, he could stay there forever. He wants to. He _wants_ to.

But he has to swim up sometime, because Matt—well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Matt doesn’t love him back, not the way he wants him to, and Foggy can’t possibly demand more of him than what he’s willing to give.

So he grins back at Matt, slings an arm around his shoulders, and says, “Come on, Matt, I need your wingman skills! We’re gonna pick ourselves up some _ladies._ ”

“And a coffee too, I hope,” says Matt, and this—Foggy can live with this.

Goddammit, _he can._

\--

He goes three days before he calls Steve, stewing in his misery. Matt’s gone off with the group he’s been assigned to by their Advanced Legal Writing professor Barnett, and since Foggy’s group doesn’t meet up until next Thursday, he’s alone in their room, and with his thoughts, because that’s such a great combination right now. _Not._

Steve picks up on the third ring, and says, “ _No, Dustin, I am not driving to Columbia with this fucking traffic and my arm—_ ”

“You know when I asked you what it felt like to fall in love with Jonathan?” says Foggy, his voice a distant thing.

“ _What?_ ” says Steve. “ _Yeah, I remember. What’s up? Oh, hell. It’s Pratt all over again, isn’t it. Do I need to dig the bat out? I can dig the bat out, just tell me where to swing it. Jonathan can help me bury the body._ ”

Foggy laughs, a little wetly. Of course Steve still has the bat. “No, no, you don’t need to dig up the bat,” he says, “it’s just—I just—I’ve been telling you about Matt, right?”

“ _Every goddamn time we meet, yeah,_ ” grumbles Steve. “ _Wait. It’s Matt, isn’t it?_ ”

“Sort of,” says Foggy, “but it’s not—I’m not—we kissed a few days ago.”

“ _That’s good, right?_ ” says Steve.

“It’s not,” Foggy says, his vision beginning to blur behind the tears. “I think I fucked it up, Steve.”

There’s a silence on the other end of the line. Then Steve says, “ _Want me to come pick you up? Nancy and Jonathan are snooping around in New Jersey._ ”

“And you’re not snooping with them why?” says Foggy.

“ _I broke my arm trying to fix our antennae,_ ” Steve sheepishly admits, and it’s so goddamn _normal_ a way of breaking his arm that Foggy starts laughing, a little bit hysterical. “ _I’m going a little bit stir-crazy here. From the sound of it I’d say you are too._ ”

“There’s a pastry shop outside of campus, on Amsterdam Avenue,” says Foggy. “I’ll meet you there?”

“ _Yeah, and I’m gonna buy you something other than that bacon-limburger cheesecake horror you think is food,_ ” says Steve.

“Do you just hate fun or something, Harrington,” says Foggy, grinning now.

“ _I don’t want you to die because of a heart attack, shithead,_ ” says Steve. “ _For one thing, that’d be undoing all my hard work keeping your ass from getting eaten. For another, your mom would kill me, and so would that Matt guy._ ”

“Matt’s a devout Catholic, he would never,” says Foggy, reflexively. Then his heart twists once more, because, well—Matt. _Matt._ “I’ll see you there?”

“ _If you get your ass there first,_ ” says Steve.

\--

Foggy gets his ass there first after texting Matt about meeting up with someone, and in a show of good faith, doesn’t order the cheesecake. He gets a sandwich instead, and a fruit shake. They don’t have any alcohol here, and Foggy idly wonders whether that’s a blessing or a curse.

Steve shows up, with his arm in a sling. His hair is, of course, as big and poofy as ever, and he slides into the seat across from Foggy with ease after getting himself a milkshake and charming the waitress into carrying his chocolate cake for him.

“I hope you’re gonna tip her a lot,” Foggy quips after she leaves.

“Of course I am, who do I look like?” says Steve, offended. “ _Tommy Hoffman?_ ”

The both of them shudder together, at the thought of the people Steve used to hang out with back in high school, when he was the big man on campus. Dicks, most of them.

“Okay, spit it out,” says Steve, after that. “What happened with perfect Matt Murdock?”

Foggy sighs, and tells him: about the party, the kiss, Bernadette and the ride back. The way Matt had just shrugged and left the matter alone, as far as Foggy can remember, as if the drunken kiss really was just—nothing. As if his suggestion hadn’t even mattered, in the long run.

The terror, that he might’ve fucked something up between them, irrevocably.

Steve’s quiet for a long moment, afterwards. Then he says, “Jesus Christ, Dustin.”

“Yeah,” says Foggy, heavily, burying his face in his hands.

“ _Jesus Christ._ ”

Foggy peeks through his fingers, takes note of the stormy look on Steve’s face, and says, “Don’t dig out the bat.”

“I won’t,” says Steve, after a moment. “But—shit. _Shit_.”

“We were both drunk, and it was a party,” says Foggy. “Shit happens at parties. I just—wish the whole possible friendship-ruining thing wasn’t one of them.”

Steve chews on his lip for a moment, and Foggy remembers: Nancy had broken up with him once at a party. “Goddammit,” says Steve, with a sigh. “Sorry.”

“The hell are you sorry for?” says Foggy. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Should’ve said something about parties,” says Steve. “Like, I don’t know, _don’t go near them_ , but you were such a little nerd when you were a kid I figured it went without saying.” He runs his non-injured hand through his hair. “And I guess for the fact that you had to pull through this shit yourself for—you said it was three days ago, right?”

“Yep,” Foggy confirms.

“I’m gonna take a wild guess here,” says Steve, “and say you haven’t told the rest of your friends either.”

Foggy shakes his head. “I don’t know how to,” he says, quietly. “And—I don’t want them to come here to line up so they can punch Matt in the face. He’s a good person, Steve. He’s funny and smart and kind and _passionate_ , you should see him in the classes we share. It’s like I’m watching _Star Wars_ for the very first time, all over again.”

“You’re so gone on him,” says Steve.

“Yeah,” says Foggy, misery sinking deep into his heart, pulling him deeper and deeper into the water.

Steve sighs. “You could ask for a room transfer,” he suggests.

“I can’t,” says Foggy. “I don’t—I’m not gonna try to run _away_ from him, he’s my _friend_.” He’d call him family, but he’s pretty sure that would just make his hopeless crush even sadder. “I don’t wanna lose him. He’s—He’s what Jonathan and Nancy are to you. What El is to Mike. What Lucas is to Max.”

The best thing to happen to him, ever, in short.

How could he break away from that? How can he even bring himself to consider the option? Some temporary distance might be best for his broken heart, sure, but he can’t—he can’t break away from Matt for good. He doesn’t even want to.

And yet.

And _yet._

“How did you deal with it?” he asks, heartsick.

“I dated somebody else,” says Steve. “A lot of somebody elses. And—went to Indianapolis a few times, figuring it out, but that’s not really an option for you.”

“Did you not think about Nancy or Jonathan, while you were dating all those someone elses?” says Foggy, and the guilty silence that follows is all the answer he needs, about how useful that advice is to him.

“I wish I had any other advice to give you,” says Steve, with a sigh. “Can’t even punch that Matt guy, I’d feel bad punching a blind man.”

“His dad was a boxer, he’d probably punch you back harder anyway,” Foggy says. “I just—he’s my friend. I don’t want to lose that just because we made out while drunk at a party.”

Steve lets out a breath, stirring his milkshake now with his non-injured hand. “Maybe—take a risk and talk to him about it,” he says, and Foggy can hear Nancy in his words, her determination to soldier on and drag the truth into the light. “Can’t hurt to clear the air between you two.”

Foggy digests this information, turns it over in his head. “Makes sense,” he says. “He’s out right now, talking to his group for Advanced Legal Writing. I can get back, tell him, and maybe—maybe things will work out.”

“See?” says Steve, approvingly. “Now we’re thinking positive.”

Foggy grins back at him, for the first time in three days feeling that maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t made the biggest mistake of his whole life.

\--

The feeling lasts until he gets back to his dorm room, and sees Matt too—with one of his groupmates, what’s her name, Mary, on his arm, her hand in his.

Matt and Mary. God, their names even _sound_ good together.

“Matt,” he manages, strangled.

“Foggy?” says Matt, surprised. “I thought—you mentioned you’d be meeting someone. Did it go well?”

It had until Foggy came back. “Yeah, yeah,” Foggy says, mustering up the energy for a grin, because Mary’s squinting up at him. “ _Yeah_ , we had—we had a great time. Who’s this?”

“I’m Mary Walker,” she says. “Um. I’m Matt’s groupmate, we were going to, ah, discuss a few more things away from the group.” She smiles a little, shyly. Goddammit, Foggy can’t bring himself to hate her, it’s not _her_ fault he’s in love with Matt. “Ah—were you—”

“I was just going to get something, and then I’ll be out of your hair,” says Foggy, with a grin. He does not wink at Matt, because it would be wasted on him, but he does whisper, “Go get her, tiger,” in his ear.

He steps back.

And he lets Matt go.

\--

Foggy slings an arm around his best friend’s shoulder, says, with a laugh, “Whatever happened to Mary, anyway? She was pretty cute.”

“Ah, man,” says Matt, with a sigh. They’re drunk, and giddy, and _free_. “It didn’t work out.”

“When does it ever with you?” says Foggy, and they walk on, unmindful of the cold, pressed so close together that Foggy can feel Matt’s warmth seeping through his clothes. “How can I help? What are you looking for, my young Padawan?”

He says the last sentence in a high-pitched tone of voice, and Matt’s laugh is clear as a stream, running through a forest, his grin bright as the sun.

“I don’t know,” he says, “I guess—someone I really like listening to.”

Foggy grins back, and sinks deeper and deeper into the water.


End file.
